The First Few Lives of John Watson with Sherlock Holmes
by CynicAlb
Summary: "[T]here are people, living among us, who do not die. …they are born, and they live, and they die and they live again, the same life, a thousand times." The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August - Claire North John Watson is just such a person.
1. Chapter 1

"[T]here are people, living among us, who do not die. …they are born, and they live, and they die and they live again, the same life, a thousand times." The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August - Claire North

Prologue

I was dying when I first met Sherlock Holmes, I was suffering a severe infection and blood-loss due to a shrapnel wound to the stomach. I knew I was dying, I was slightly put out by the fact and was looking to con a nurse into giving me some extra morphine to speed my departure. God knows why Sherlock was in Camp Bastion, but he happened to be wandering down my ward and stopped when he saw me.

"You're dying," he said abruptly frowning.

"I know," I said.

"I know you know," said Sherlock, his frown deepening, "But why aren't you a wailing mess like your counterparts?"

"It's only death," I said.

"That's a very rational attitude, oh wait you're not one of those religious people are you?" he asked.

"Not lately," I said with an amused huff, "there isn't a religion that covers me."

"And what are you?" he asked.

"I am just a man with a past, and future that are one in the same," I said.

"I should look at what drugs you're on and get some for myself," he said glancing at my chart.

"Not enough morphine is what I'm on, but if you could snitch me an extra bottle I'd be grateful of the smooth ride into the abyss."

"You're asking me to help you commit suicide," said Sherlock, "you don't even know who I am."

"I know you don't belong here," I said taking a deep breath as a sudden painful wave went through my body, "You're not military, and you're not a doctor. You're too old to be here for me and I'm too young for someone to need information from my past. I'd say you're a diplomat's relative who's wandered off the regular tour."

"You're very astute for a soldier," said Sherlock, "it's a shame you're dying I meet so few interesting people."

"I know what you mean," I said sighing as Sherlock injected something into my IV. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said, "it won't take long that was purified heroine."

"Interesting indeed," I said, feeling the drug take effect drip by drip, "perhaps we'll meet again in another life."

"I only have one," he said before the world faded and I died without even knowing his name.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One

The next time I met Sherlock Holmes I had been invalided back to London. An unfortunate run-in with a sniper that nearly took my shoulder off and killed me outright. Not for the first time I was considering simply ending my life there, though I was still relatively young.

I had earned my MD and made a name for myself in the RAMC; a reputation that was now worthless with my discharge. My shoulder hurt and the pain had reactivated remembered pain from an injury I had sustained in my fourth life, a bullet wound that shattered my femur and left me with a severe limp for the remainder of that life.

Sherlock Holmes sized me up in one look and completely missed the most interesting thing about me. I am kalachakra or ouroboran, one who lives his life in circles, constantly born to live again.

I am lucky in a sense as an ouroboran to not know my true origins. I was an orphan abandoned on the steps of a church in a tiny town in the south of England. A town so small that the address of the church is simply, The Church on The Street. I don't know who my parents were, I don't know where they came from. Centuries to research, interview and back trace people from the area. As near as I can tell a heavy set woman unknown to anyone in town stopped in the pub, and asked to use the bathroom, no one saw her leave and no one saw her again. I can't even be certain she was pregnant or that she was my mother. When I was found on the church steps that morning, the doctor said I was a healthy full-term baby no more than a month old, but possibly younger.

The priest named me John for John the baptist, and the church office manager gave me the rest of my name, she was Scottish and loved the name Hamish. I should thank her for that one day.

I was fostered to Margret and Harold Jenson they had a three year old daughter named Harry. I am ashamed to say I didn't appreciate their love for what it was. At least not in my first life. In my first life I was a criminal, no that's too kind. In my first life I was a thug; angry at the world, for reasons I couldn't explain today, at the lot I had been dealt.

My foster father expected me to join the military and serve as he had done, but I would have none of it. I ran away to London and fell in with a violent gang. I was stabbed four times before I was thirty and the last time killed me. I was reborn and again placed on the church steps, and when I started to remember my life I thought I was mad. The church thought I was possessed and I was sent away. I lived for a few years trying to understand knowing things that were going to happen and not knowing why or what I was. I killed myself when I was 12 by breaking out one of the panes of stained glass in the rectory.

The Chronos club found me in my third life barely legal drunk and strung out babbling to anyone who would listen about living over and over again. A woman called Charlotte explained what I was and what it meant. I was still too angry to really to take it in. I was grateful to know I wasn't alone in this, but I still felt that I was being dealt a raw deal and I made it my goal to test this unlimited deaths and rebirths theory. I went out and did as many dangerous things as I could think of. In fact it took me five lives to even find a natural death; heart disease in my seventies.

Mary died first, she was my rock, the one who got through the anger and the pain and found me, she found me and saved me. She was the one who gave me the name Watson, it was the name she had chosen for her new life, with a back handed reference to her old one too. Watson means powerful warrior. We were married 47years and to this day I don't know her real name. I don't think she knew I suspected her deceit, but I would never have called her on it, I have my own secrets after all.

When I was born again I didn't have the heart to seek her out. I sought to see my life through calmer eyes, I saw my parents anew, they loved me in a way I had never seen before through the cloud of untamed anger. I was determined to make my adoptive parents proud to make up for being such an utter failure in those first few lives. I joined the army as John Watson and I found that I liked it. The fire that Mary had quelled in me still burned, and learning discipline, fighting, and strategy kept it at bay. I excelled and was chosen for officer school. Somehow it arose that I was a natural leader and I moved up the ranks quickly. When I made captain, my mother cried and my father saluted me. I was killed in Afghanistan when our convoy hit an IED.

Now a couple hundred years older, I was able to focus on living a better life, learning in school became fun and useful. I set my sights on going to college. I visited the local Chronos club and got advice on how to live as one of them, one of us. I studied and got my degree in history. I wanted to understand what I was and what that meant for the world I lived in. I ended up a professor and taught for the remainder of my life learning more about my current events than I had in any of my prior lives. In my next few lives I traveled learning languages and cultures that I had seen through aged eyes as an academic. I found I missed the purpose I found in military service, so I joined up again, this time with a mind to learn medicine. I studied at Bart's before being deployed overseas I toured several bases before finding myself once more in Afghanistan and once more at death's door. Only this time I survived.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Two

The furor with which I had approached my rebirths since Mary had calmed somewhat. While the army had helped to give me focus and purpose once more, I now found myself aimless and somewhat bored with what my life had amounted to. Some kalachakra spend many lives learning many disciplines, medicine, religion, philosophy, history, sciences, etc… searching for answers in the realms of infinite human knowledge. I have found that I am a practical man, and spending decades navel gazing was not something I felt I needed to do. Life is life, and for us, life simply goes on and on. I had reached boredom, spending several centuries reliving the same period of history can do that to you.

I thought to end my life after my discharge, I had spent many of my boring monotonous days listing all the professions I wanted to try when I grew up again. I was thinking of trying the law. A law degree would help me rise in rank faster and help avoid combat, and with my already prodigious knowledge base I could perhaps move up to Major, and aim for Colonel in later years. General was a no go, because it came with the power to affect changes that might have ripple effects on the future. So maybe not law, maybe another branch of medicine or an obscure speciality. I could do research into cures for diseases, better treatments or…well the lists went on.

On the day in question I went for a walk trying desperately to convince my body that the pain it felt belonged to a body that had been dead for centuries. I was frustrated and depressed and I really didn't want to run into any old school friends. Stamford was my friend in the sense that he was the one who had been assigned as my lab partner along with two other students and with whom I spent a great deal of time memorizing body parts.

The coffee was overly sweet and the conversation awkward. The only reason I agreed to return to Bart's with him was I literally had nothing else to do. That decision had far reaching consequences even I with all my years could not have predicted.

I was of course aware of Sherlock Holmes, in a way that one might know the name of a random celebrity, but not really know why they're famous. I had heard the name whispered here and there during my time on the streets of London, and in later lives I had read a few bits and pieces in newspapers while I was deployed and at home. Vague references to crime solving, and murders and later a small note that he had been found apparently having committed suicide. I remember when I was working as a thug for a local gang one of the men mentioned the big boss was pissed because he thought Holmes would go the distance. Whatever that meant.

When I was kidnapped by Mycroft Holmes, I knew him as a kalachakra, but he obviously didn't recognize me as one. I had been a skinny strung out 17 year old, and he was a posh twenty-something with nothing but distain for anyone he perceived below him. He just turned his nose up when Charlotte had brought me to the club to dry out. I wouldn't have even noticed him except that Charlotte had said "Don't mind him, Mycroft is still learning that your point of origin is not the be all and end all." You don't come across that many Mycrofts in the world, and even though he was older I still recognized that look of patronizing distaste at my less that salubrious beginnings, and it was swiftly apparent that the intervening lives hadn't changed him as much as they had changed me.

What did surprise me was that Sherlock was his brother, most kalachakra become bored with their families after a few lives, and tend to let them fade into the background after the obligatory childhood period. I maintain special occasion contact with my foster parents, and sister. Harry was born three years before me, and unfortunately didn't have the extra lifetimes to figure out what she was so angry about, she doused her fire with alcohol and made it burn hotter. I've tried through several lives to get her to straighten out, but have found that she cannot or simply will not. As Sherlock correctly surmised I don't go to my family for help.

I shot Jefferson Hope on instinct; a snap decision. That entire night had been the most fun I'd had in decades, perhaps even centuries. Sherlock Holmes was my cure for the utter boredom and indolence that comes from living over again. I wasn't about to let him leave after only a few hours.

A couple of months later Mycroft sent another car for me. I was surprised it took him so long to be honest. Anthea was on her blackberry, I knew her name was really Sandra and we'd dated once in a previous life, but it was a short lived fling and I wasn't about to blow her cover. The car took me to the Chronos club, and I knew that I'd been rumbled. I made my way to one of the sitting rooms at the rear and found Mycroft reading a paper. I took the seat beside him and ordered a drink.

"So did you remember me, or did someone else here tell you?" I asked.

"Charlotte mentioned how far you'd come in just a few lives, when she saw that article in the paper about the jade hair pin."

"Ah," I said smiling as I turned to accept my drink and sit back in my chair. "So, what is it you wanted to speak to me about?"

"I wish to know why you have endeared yourself to my brother, the only linear I have even the most fleeting connection to."

"I thought we had this conversation already, and I wasn't intimated that time either," I said.

"That was before I knew what you were," said Mycroft, "is this some way to get to me?"

"You are still full of yourself Mycroft," I said, "I met Sherlock by chance, at a moment when I was actually thinking on starting over. He distracted me from the sharp turn this life took when that bullet entered my shoulder."

"So that's all he is, a distraction from the repetition?" asked Mycroft.

"We made friends," I said shaking my head, "he's what I needed to move on from my army plans, and he needs the grounding I provide. We work together, and its the first relationship of any kind I've had that I gave a damn about since I died with my wife a century ago."

"If you hurt him I will endeavor to end you existence," said Mycroft. I laughed out loud at that, much to Mycroft's consternation.

"I find it so amusing that you think you can threaten me. I've killed more times than I care to count, but rest assured that scarier men and women than you have tried to intimidate me and failed. Your brother is safe from me, and thanks to me as well. You should be grateful that your brother has connected with someone who cannot be bribed, or threaten with death and who is fully capable of protecting him no matter the cost."

"He already has someone," said Mycroft tightly.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft, but I don't think your brother appreciates your brand of concern. I don't know what all happened while you were growing up, but you might want to rethink your approach for the next life. If it helps I don't get on with my sister, and I don't know any of our kind that's especially close to their parents and other family after several lives piling up."

"I am aware of the convention," said Mycroft, "but I take my familial responsibility seriously in every life."

"For a man like you Sherlock's insistent independence must frustrate you to no end."

"To put it mildly," said Mycroft, "I truly only want what's best for him, and unfortunately have yet to see him find a natural end."

I was surprised, but not really shocked that Sherlock's actions had led to his death on a few occasions, but Mycroft was at least as old as me, to have never found his brother's path to safety? It must tear him apart that this was the fate of someone he cared for and could not avoid meeting again in each life only to lose him.

"I'm sorry," I said knowing it was inadequate.

"I've tried everything, I've hired people to watch him, people to befriend him, blackmailed his cohorts, and people who tried to get close to him. I had his more dangerous foes eliminated before becoming a threat. I even left him to his own devices completely," said Mycroft, "it would appear that no matter the circumstances my brother is not long for this world."

"Has he ever had any real friends?" I asked, "People you didn't pay, or blackmail or scare off?"

"A few passing acquaintances, but nothing close. No romantic entanglement either, I'm not sure he's aware of that side of life except where it relates to his work."

"Barely even then," I said with a small smile.

"I still find myself wondering your intentions towards my brother, Dr. Watson," said Mycroft.

"My intent is only to live Mycroft," I said, "Sherlock gave me a purpose when I was floundering and I haven't found a true connection with another person since my wife. Sex isn't the be all and end all, but honest human connection is hard to come by, at least for me. I'll be Sherlock's friend for as long as he'll tolerate me, and I have no other plans beyond that." My phone buzzed with a text.

New case looks interesting, meet me at Baker st. —SH

"It appears we have reached an impasse," said Mycroft.

"I don't know if it's possible," I said standing up, "but perhaps we could try to find some sort of a civil relationship, I wouldn't suggest you deign to become friends with me, but we both clearly care about Sherlock and that should be enough common ground to be going on with."

"Perhaps," said Mycroft, and with a slight nod he returned to his paper.

* * *

A/N : Ah the world of fanfic has drawn me back in again! A warm flame to crowd around when the real world proves all the colder for its reality. - Cynic


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Three

My life with Sherlock was never boring, and that first year definitely had it's moments. After being kidnapped by the Chinese mafia, I had taken to carrying my gun around with me wherever I went. But when I was jumped by six men, and one of them had a hypodermic needle, my gun was left unfired on the ground. While the abduction was professional, the next part well…it was weird.

"Hello there John," said Jim, Molly's boyfriend, at first I wondered why he was sideways, but then I realized I was lying on a bench. When I started to sit up he helped me, smoothing the huge duffle coat I was now wearing.

"I don't understand," I said, because I really didn't and for someone as old as I am, it was actually an unfamiliar feeling.

"That's okay dear," said Jim, "You're not here for your brains, you're just the cherry on the cake of my brilliant game." Then it clicked, this man was behind the pips and was obsessed with Sherlock enough to insert himself into our lives by dating Molly. Poor girl, I thought, scowling at Jim.

"So I'm the last pip am I?" I asked and finally noticed the vest of C4 strapped to my body. Suddenly I knew I didn't want to die now, I wanted to live, and help Sherlock and have adventures and experience life in a way I never had before. I would not die at the hands of this madman. My hands weren't bound and we were sat in a locker room. I could smell the chlorine and realized where we must be. For a man who claims to be a sociopath Sherlock is awfully sentimental. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

In my fourth life, I was shot in the leg. I was running from a particularly screwed up robbery attempt. While I had merely been acting as look-out my 'partner' decided I had outlived my usefulness and shot me, in order, I suppose, to delay authorities from their pursuit of him. My leg was shattered, literally, I had to have several operations to insert various pins, rods and screws in order that I would not lose my leg completely. During most of this period, I was in what can only be termed a drugged haze. During this altered state I had made some comments to the effect that I lived over again, and should probably kill myself so that I don't have to bother about healing up from this injury. Also some graphic descriptions of what I would do to my former partner should I get a hold of him again in any life.

Once I was stable, I was swiftly transferred to the psych ward. I claimed that I was out of my head on pain meds, but the psychologist decided I was a risk to myself and others. It didn't make much difference while I was still bed-ridden, but once I was mobile the question of my mental state became an issue, for both myself and the authorities who were waiting to transfer me to some kind of detention facility. I was looking at six to ten for my part in the break-in, but would probably get less because of the utter failure that it was. My brief implied that he was going to plead the case down on account of my mental deficiencies. In this life I hadn't even finished school before running away to London. I was sentenced to two years in a minimum security mental health facility, most of which I spent relearning how to walk and finishing my GSCE's by post. Oh, and getting therapy.

I was diagnosed with anti-social personality disorder. My psychologist's notes, which even back then I could read upside down, said I was probably a psychopath, but because I hadn't been convicted of a violent crime and didn't have violent outbursts, she wasn't going to officially state that as a diagnosis.

When I left eighteen months later, they said I was managing my condition well and left it at that. I was intrigued and studied psychology. Because of the conviction on my record I couldn't practice, but the Chronos club, particularly Charlotte, was so happy I was showing interest in something other than things that could get me killed, they helped me get through school and into college.

I met Mary while she was finishing her nursing degree. She was volunteering at the clinic where I was still getting physical therapy for my leg. I talked to her more about myself than I spoke to anyone else. I talked to her about feeling angry all the time, and not knowing how to function without lashing out at people. She wasn't scared when I talked about my violent past.

"I can always run away, if you get cheeky," she said when I asked her why. I knew she was like me then, with her own demons vying for her attention and I resolved not to be the one to pull them out into the light. Once I was finished with physical therapy she got me into boxing, and some rudimentary martial arts classes. "It's all a system of control," she said, "you've got to be the one to choose how it comes out and when. "

In school I studied abnormal psychology and criminal profiling. I agreed with the hospital doctor that I was somewhere in that gray area when anti-social meets psychopath. My fire burns at birth, but has been tempered by the lives I've lived and the experiences I retain over my lifetimes. I still need to give it an outlet, a place to burn safely, that's what I learned from Mary, not to douse the flames of my rage, which is what the doctors wanted from me, but to direct them. After Mary I chose the army to give me that direction, and later I chose Sherlock.

Sherlock's contention that he's a high-functioning sociopath is only marred by the fact that he actually does feel things quite acutely. A sociopath doesn't flinch even minutely at an insult that's probably been hurled at him more than his real name. I don't know what Mycroft or their parents did to him did in their youth to teach him to hide any trace of feelings from the world. The training was extremely effective, but it's clear that while Mycroft is very much not a normal man he strives to fit into a certain mold, one that he's also tried unsuccessfully to stuff Sherlock into. If Sherlock truly didn't care he wouldn't resent Mycroft, and he would not be the world's only consulting detective.

When I looked into the eyes of James Moriarty, I saw a true psychopath, someone who would tear down the world on a whim. And here I was sitting in a swimming pool changing room in a vest covered in C4. I'm not completely ignorant of explosives, so when he had the guards put the ear-piece on me, I was able to pull out a couple of wires that would disarm the bomb. One less thing to worry about, but I was still grievously outnumbered and outgunned.

Moriarty straightened the front of my coat smiling.

"There you go," he said patting the closure, "ready for the big reveal. Oh, I can't wait to see his face when he realizes what's going to happen. It'll be priceless."

"I'm going to kill you," I said. It wasn't a threat or warning, it was just my realization that in the end that's what I would do. Even if I died here, I would spend my next life finding and killing this man and perhaps make a point of it in future lives as well. "I could make it a project," I said smiling at his confused expression, "For Sherlock and I, I mean, we could spend a while hunting you down and then I'd kill you."

"You're very confident," said Moriarty, "for a man with enough C4 on his body to level a city block. You could be dead in just a few minutes."

"That won't stop me," I said. He laughed and walked away.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Four

I was pleased that Sherlock had brought my back-up gun, I was less pleased that he'd set up this meeting without human back-up, the idiot. I scanned the balcony for the snipers and saw two. Doable, but the likelihood I would sustain a fatal shot before killing both was significant, also I had to deal with Sherlock and Moriarty as well. Problematic.

They walked towards me Moriarty behind, Sherlock in front holding my back-up gun. When they were close enough I acted. I grabbed Sherlock by the arm pulling my gun from his hand and putting myself in front of him, then I turned and shot Moriarty, shoved Sherlock into the pool and took aim at the snipers, they got a couple of shots off before I took them out and collapsed. Sherlock dragged himself out of the pool and over to me. Thankfully the snipers had been trying not to set off the explosives, so one had shot me in the leg and the other had gone for a head-shot and grazed my shoulder.

Sherlock was looking at me with an expression that way two parts 'idiot' and one part 'What the hell?".

"Get this thing off me!" I said sitting up and struggling with the jacket and the bomb vest. "I disarmed it, but it's probably best not temp fate at this point." He helped me remove the coat and device and flung it to the far end of the room. I felt for the wound on my shoulder and realized it was only a graze. My left leg was bleeding freely and I was lucky not to have been taken out by the femoral artery.

"Give me your belt for a tourniquet. And call an ambulance for god's sake. I don't want to bleed to death after all that," I said. Sherlock followed my directions without questions without words even until he pulled a phone off Moriarty's body and called 999. Much sooner than expected sirens pierced the silence, and not much later I was pulled down into unconsciousness by exhaustion, and blood-loss. The last thing I saw was Sherlock's pale face still giving me that look of utter disbelief.

* * *

I woke up to the beep of a heart monitor and the rustle of newspaper. Mycroft peered over the metro section at me.

"John," he said, "Sherlock should be back momentarily, I think he was checking with the doctor regarding your unwillingness to wake up." He smirked and put down the paper as he stood up. "Nice shooting by the way, you got both shooters dead center."

"Not so good at dodging," I said wincing as I repositioned myself on the bed. Mycroft pressed the button on the bed to raise the head a little, and even poured me a cup of water from the plastic jug on the bedside table. "Thank you," I said taking a welcome sip of the cool liquid. "What did the doctor say about my leg?"

"Flesh wound," said Mycroft absently, "something about missing vital arteries by millimeters."

"Thank god, the last time I was shot in the leg I ended up with more metal in me than the bionic man," I smiled at Mycroft.

"I've taken the liberty of ensuring that you'll get the best physical therapy possible, it's the least I can do. Your actions will take some cleaning up to do, especially with the extensive web of crimes that Moriarty was involved in."

"I take it Moriarty is dead as well?" I asked.

"Very," said Mycroft. A flicker of emotion crossed his face.

"You knew about him then?" I asked.

"We knew of him," said Mycroft, "but this is the first time Sherlock has come into direct contact with him and his organization. Thanks to you we can now go about dismantling his network much earlier than we've ever been able to."

"You're welcome," I said dryly. Mycroft walked towards the door, but stopped and turned back.

"Sherlock should be back soon. I just wanted to say thank you, for keeping your word and protecting him."

"He's my friend Mycroft, perhaps in the next life you should try it out." He left without answering me and a few minutes later Sherlock swept in.

"You're awake," he said.

"Well spotted," I said, "you should be a detective." Sherlock gave me a twisted smile, like he was trying not to let it fully plant on his face.

"You…you," his face screwed up as he came closer to the bed, and for the first time I saw he was struggling to find what he wanted to say. "You ruined my suit, chlorine on that material it'll never be the same again."

It was my turn to smile. "Bill me," I said.

"What you did…you…," he frowned again, "Why did you do that?"

"I didn't do anything I'm just lying here," I said.

"Don't be obtuse John, you know what I meant. Why…?"

"Why did I shoot those snipers poised to kill us? Why did I shoot Moriarty? Did you think I was just going to stand there and let him kill me and you, and who knows how many others?"

"You could have been killed when you pulled me out of the way, you had already disarmed the bomb you could have just left out the back."

"I knew you were coming, walking directly into the trap, and if Moriarty didn't have me in hand he'd use you to get me back, I'd already seen too much. And a man with an ego that size wasn't going to just let me walk away."

"So you chose to walk out into firing range of two snipers and what? Hope for the best?" asked Sherlock.

"In my defense I didn't know there would be snipers," I said.

"Regardless, you were in that position because of me, and you nearly died, and you saved me…and I'm not sure I understand your logic," said Sherlock.

"It wasn't logic, Sherlock," I said stifling a laugh.

"Then what was it?" he asked perplexed.

"I don't know, maybe I like you," I smiled at his wince, "Maybe you're the first friend I had in a long time that I've given more than two shits about. Maybe I just wanted to shoot the man who wrapped me in C-4 and smiled at me like I was a moron. You be the judge."

* * *

I didn't lie to Sherlock, that first night when he asked me what I would say if I knew I was going to die. In my first life before I knew I was a kalachakra I lived on the streets of London committing many and varied acts of violence for money. In hindsight it's a miracle I lived into my twenties at all. I was stabbed twice in the gut and once in the chest while providing 'security' for a low level drug dealer and his supplier. I didn't know everyone was going to double-cross everyone else. It wasn't an instant death. After it was all over when the survivors fled with the money and the dope I was left still alive bleeding out on the floor.

"Please god let me live."

Not, as Sherlock would point out several hundred years later, an original thought, but I was a stupid kid dying for a fight I didn't give a shit about, dying because I hadn't really considered the path my life had taken and the choices that I made to bring me here. I was never particularly religious and I can't say that I believe in a god now that I'm better informed, but all I could think of at the time was how fucking stupid I had been and all I wanted was another shot to get it right.

Well…wish granted.

* * *

I'm doing a nanowrimo but this story is mostly finished so I'll see if I can update a bit fast for you guys. Later Cynic


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Five

I went to New Zealand for a couple of weeks after I was released from the hospital. Sherlock was knee deep in a couple of gory experiments and barely noticed I was gone. I needed time to breathe, to make sure that tethering myself to the mad genius was really what I wanted to do for the rest of this life or at least as long as it lasted. My fling with Sarah ended with the vacation, she tried to pry my interest away from Sherlock and ultimately realized that the only thing she could offer me that was different from what Sherlock did was sex and even that wasn't a sure bet when I was on a case. I like sex don't get me wrong, but after a certain point of repeating the same years over and over again what you want is a truly good distraction, and Sherlock had that in spades.

Sarah went home after a week, and I went to see a friend of mine at the local Chronos club. Huiling was someone I met on my travels, she tried to teach me eastern philosophies like zen, and meditation, but what I really got was kung fu training and a good friend.

"It's so beautiful here," I said when we sat out on her porch with our drinks.

"It's too green," said Huiling pulling a face at the miles of verdant hills rolling out in front of us.

"What about the sky? There's a lot of blue out there too," I said.

"Blue? Blue is constant. You know I search for different hues," she said, "I'm heading back to Hong Kong next month, you're welcome to join me if you like."

"I don't know," I sighed, and stretched out my leg, still aching from the bullet wound. "I feel like every life I'm always in the path of too many bullets."

"John you are like the sky, constant in your struggles against your nature. You are like the wind, and the rain, gentle and fierce in turns. You should embrace your powers and accept them and you will find your place."

"My power is the fight," I said, "I fight that which is inside me that makes me a violent man."

"All men are violent John, though most do not acknowledge it. Your power is the knowledge you have, the awareness of the violence and the ability to point it where it can do the most good."

When I got back Sherlock and I took on more cases, some big, some small. I bumped into another old friend while we were investigating that thing with the melting laptop.

"James Bond, as I live and breathe," I smiled and took James' hand.

"John Watson, you are a sight for sore eyes I thought you'd be off in Afghanistan getting your ass shot at around now," said James.

"Just got back actually," I said, "and it was the shoulder. Medical discharge."

"Sorry," he said nodding his understanding.

"Yeah, so what about you? Still getting your rocks off for queen and country?"

"You know me," James smiled, "anything for queen and country."

"I suppose it keeps things interesting at least," I said.

"There is that," said James, "and the fringe benefits aren't bad either. So what are you doing now? Since the discharge? If you want me to I can put in a good word for you with the bosses, you know we need good people and someone with your skills would breeze through the qualifier tests."

"That's a tempting offer, I haven't done the intelligence bit in a while and it might be an interesting distraction. If you'd have asked me six months ago I would have jumped at it, but I'm trying something new with this whole detective thing."

"Oh, so you're the one that hooked up with Holmes' brother, I stopped by the club a couple months ago and he was bitching to Charlotte about this broken down nobody solider who had hooked up with his brother. It's Sherlock right?"

"Yes, god knows what their mother was thinking, but if the apples didn't fall far then it might give us some clues," I said grinning.

James laughed and finished his drink. "Next time you're coming in with me though right? Between 98 and 99 is when I start and there's this island off the coast of the Bahamas where the girls fall like coconuts from the trees."

"Wasn't that the island with that bloke who was selling Russian missile plans? The one that you torched killing half the population?" I asked.

"I take that guy out on the mainland now much quicker. Then I do a week on the island in his house with all the amenities including the girls," said James.

"Oh, well," I said almost smiling, "let's say in my next one I'll join you there."

"Great we'll meet at the club 97 on the 14th of May say about oneish, I'll buy you lunch," said James.

"It's a date," I said shaking on it and looking around. "I'd better see where Sherlock's got to, it's only a matter of time before he creates an international incident."

"Sounds like a man after my own heart, and if you want you can bring him along, might be fun to see Holmes' face if we draft his brother into the program," said James.

"I'm sure Sherlock would love it, but we'll see how this one goes before I commit to bringing him along on the next one," I said.

"Whatever you want John," James looked off to the right, "I see my dance partner, and I'll see you on the next one."

"If you want to have a drink sooner just call me, I know you can get my number," I said.

"I'll do that, and if you change your mind about my offer this time around give me a call. I know you can get my number," said James, "bye John." He walked in his self-assured way through the crowd that parted without even knowing why and I watched James kiss the hand of an attractive brunette before the people closed up around them.

"There you are John!" said Sherlock coming up from behind, "I thought I'd lost you for a moment. What on earth were you doing talking to that spook?"

"James is an old friend," I said, "we met while I was working at the military hospital in Afghanistan."

"Oh well never mind that, I found out what I need from the kitchen staff, it was poison," said Sherlock turning abruptly and making his own less courteous way through the crowd to the door. "Come along John."

I sighed and shook my head before following in his wake.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Six

I'll admit to a modicum of jealousy when it comes to Irene Adler, but only in the sense that I felt left out of the game. It was Holmes vs. Adler and I was just the gooseberry between them making snide comments. I felt almost betrayed because I had chosen Sherlock over all of the other things I could be doing with my unlimited time and he was mooning over a woman who was blatantly playing with him. I could have killed her at the house after she drugged Sherlock, but I could tell she wasn't a vindictive person, just someone looking for the next entertainment in her life. I can sympathize, but I don't condone her methods and I'm not talking about the dominatrix bit either. Mycroft must think I'm a moron if he thinks I'd believe that she was dead. I'd almost think he was protecting her from me, if I thought for a second he actually gave a damn about his brother's emotional well-being.

I remember the Baskerville case with mixed feelings, I immensely enjoyed pulling rank around the base, but I didn't enjoy being experimented on by Sherlock or the three solid days I spent in my room having vivid flashbacks from my various violent lives. When Sherlock finally came to check on me I was crammed into the corner of the room with my arms over my head desperately blocking out the shouts and screams and explosions.

"John?" I heard the door and footsteps that weren't in the place the gas had taken me, "John?"

"Don't come any closer," I said struggling to keep myself in the now, and out of the then.

"What can I do?" he asked.

"Go to my bedside table and get my revolver," I said through clenched teeth.

"Yes," he said and I was startled that he'd moved and I didn't hear him.

"Leave and lock the door behind you," I said.

"Are you sure that's the best option?" he asked uncertain for the first time since I'd known him.

"If you call someone they'll have me sectioned and it'll take me months to get out," I said.

"John," he started, and for one horrible moment I thought he might actually apologize for triggering the gas in me and putting my mind in this state.

"Don't!" I spat at him, still not looking up. I couldn't, I couldn't predict what I would see what I would do if I saw an enemy, or a rival, or a victim. "Just get out!" I didn't hear him leave only the sound of the lock clicking into place. The next day I found my gun on my desk in the living room empty and clean.

Sherlock never mentioned it, but I know he talked to Lestrade about it. While we were having our weekly pint he asked me how I was doing.

"Did Sherlock put you up to that?" I asked.

"He called yesterday asked if I'd had any reaction to the gas," said Lestrade.

"Have you?" I asked.

"Some nasty nightmares," he shrugged and took a swig of beer, "Doctor gave me a clean bill of health and all."

"Good," I said.

"What about you? You okay? Sherlock indicated you seemed to be having a harder time of it," he said as casually as he was able.

"Nightmares," I said examining the tabletop, "couple of flashbacks."

"Shit," he said, "guy stepped on a land-mine course that'd be a trigger for you." We sat and drank in silence for a minute.

"You okay, though really? Sherlock's a prick, but the fact he expressed concern means he must have seen something."

"He's not expressing concern he's expressing guilt," I said still not feeling remotely charitable about the whole escapade.

"Over what?" asked Lestrade.

"The first time we were exposed to the gas only he and Henry saw the beast, he wanted to see if he could replicate the experience in a controlled environment," I said.

"Shit," he said again, "what did he do?"

"Well at the time he didn't know what affected him was a gas, he deduced it was something both he and Henry had had but not me, so he stole Henry's sugar and made me a cup of coffee. I'd already been exposed to the gas anyway so when he locked me in the basement at Baskerville and turned the lights off the already implanted suggestion of the hound and escaped test subjects ran their course."

"Fuck," he said and I gave him a shrug and a smile. "Class act that man."

"You know the sick of it isn't that he tried to drug me without my knowledge. It's actually something that I should have expected from him," I sighed, "It's that he used our friendship to do it, pretending that making me a coffee was his inept way of apologizing for being an utter git the night before."

"Is that a deal breaker for you?" asked Greg.

"I'm still here aren't I? God help me that I am, but I'm not walking away because of some hurt feelings."

"It's a bit more than that mate, look I've seen Sherlock break men with a single comment and you've been with him over a year it's no wonder some of the cracks are showing."

"It's not just me putting up with him though, I'm a bit twisted all by myself you know," I said, "I honestly don't know what I'd do now I've had a chance to see this kind of life."

"I know what you mean," said Greg.

"We'll work it out, and there's some hope in there, if Sherlock's aware enough to notice that something's wrong then I think it's a step in the right direction," I said.

"Well if you ever need someone to gripe to just give me a call, goodness knows I do it to you more often than's right anyway. It's the least I can do. Since you turned up Sherlock's actually been showing some more humanity than any of the rest of the time I've known him."

"Thanks I'll probably take you up on that before long," I said raising my glass to him and taking a swig. We switched to safer topics after that discussing the local football team and the latest rugby scores.

I got up late the next morning and found Sherlock on the couch tinkering with his violin.

"I hope you gave Lestrade my best," he said barely looking up.

"Tea?" I asked going to the kitchen.

"John I know that you're still feeling the effects of what happened in Dartmoor," Sherlock started as I sat down with the cups of tea.

"Don't start Sherlock, I'm not in the mood to be deduced right now," I said and picked up the paper.

"I just want to say that I hope we can still continue as colleagues, and friends," he said.

"Just out of curiosity," I said putting the paper down, "what do you see as wrong with the situation?"

"Exposure to the gas obviously caused some great discomfort in the form of some extreme flashbacks, and the return of several of your PTSD symptoms. You may be thinking that associating with me is not in your best interest," said Sherlock.

"You idiot," I said shaking my head at his bewildered expression, "I was kidnapped twice last year, and shot. I've killed five people for you and you think that some flashbacks are really what's going to make me question my decision to work with you?"

"Then I don't understand what's going on," said Sherlock.

"There in lies the crux of the problem doesn't it," I regarded him carefully trying to see any hint that he understood. "You betrayed my trust," I said quietly, "I am a man with many issues as Mycroft and my therapist can attest to, but my biggest issue has always been trust. I don't trust people, and I don't let them get close to me. Your stunt with the sugar and the coffee, and locking me in the lab to go mad well…"

"But the case," said Sherlock, "I needed clean data."

"The case and the questionable scientific integrity of your test aside Sherlock, you used our friendship to manipulate me, you abused my trust with an uncharacteristic act of friendship and you did it without a second thought. Even now you don't think that what you did was wrong." I stood up and looked down at him, "I'm not leaving, I'm not abandoning you or anything of the like, but this … this is going to take me a while to really get over, alright?"

When I got back downstairs after getting changed Sherlock was still in the same position.

"Do you need anything from the store while I'm there?" I asked.

"What did you mean by questionable scientific integrity?" asked Sherlock.

I rolled my eyes and collapsed into my chair.

"Christ!" I said, "of course that'd be the only thing you heard. Fine, you want me to talk to you in your own language? Your theory and methodology were flawed and the 'experiment' you performed was completely unneeded and worse still it was an outrageous risk to take with my mental health."

"Explain," said Sherlock.

"Okay fine, you deduced that because you and Henry saw something impossible then the only possible explanation could be that you were drugged. I wasn't immediately affected so you concluded that I was not exposed, therefore the only thing that you had consumed that I hadn't was the sugar in the coffee at Henry's house. Am I correct so far?"

"Yes," said Sherlock.

"So you went and retrieved the sugar thinking it contained a hallucinogen that was slowly, but surely making Henry crazy. Instead of testing your hypothesis by using your connections to gain the use of a lab and testing the substance to find the chemical in question and identifying it, you contrived to administer a random dose to an unprepared subject, whose history, physiology and emotional state were so completely different from yours and Henry's as to make any reaction to the drug completely unusable in any credible scientific study worth its salt.

"Not only that, but you gave it to someone whom you know in recent history has suffered severe physical and psychological trauma, so as to make the administering of such a drug recklessly dangerous to that person's already damaged psyche. As if that wasn't enough, then you went to great lengths to torture the subject to the point of reacting to the chemical.

"You could have gotten your results under a microscope without your 'experiment' at all. The whole thing was not only useless, but unnecessary and you didn't stop -you never stop- to think about the consequences of your actions, and that's something for you to work on Sherlock because as much as I do enjoy our partnership and the thrill of the chase, I also do not enjoy being used, manipulated and generally treated like I am little more than a means to an end to you and if things continue I'm afraid that this will have to come to an end before one of us ends up dead." I got up and grabbed my coat and wallet heading for the door.

"So you're just like the others you're afraid that I'll end up killing you," Sherlock called.

"You didn't listen to a word I just said," I said without turning around, "No, to answer you're question, I'm afraid that one day you'll need my help, but you'll have been such an utter bastard and I won't come until its too late," then I turned around, "I'm afraid that big brain of yours will write a check your fancy martial arts can't cash, and I'm afraid that if I keep having to kill people for you Sherlock then one day I'll become someone that you'll need to kill yourself." I left him and went to Tesco. While I was wandering up and down the aisles absently tossing food stuffs into my cart my phone buzzed with a text and then barely a minute later a second one.

I apologize for my rash behavior, and my shaky scientific methods - SH

Lestrade called with a case - will you come? - SH

On my way home - JW

On the way back, arms full of shopping bags, I was kidnapped. I felt someone behind me, and then I felt the sting of a needle and then there was nothing.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Seven

I woke up face first in a puddle of my own drool cooling on a tiled floor. My hands were cuffed together thankfully in front of me, but less thankfully connected to a chain that was welded into the floor. There was a mattress pad on one side, and a toilet and metal basin on the other. There were no windows except for a small porthole in the steel reinforced door. I scooted over to the mattress and put my head in my hands trying desperately not to laugh. I knew exactly where I was.

I was in the secure wing of St. Martin's hospital recently closed due to changes in the NHS budget and where in a previous life I had spent eighteen months learning how to walk on a pinned leg. I lay down discreetly pulling the lock pick out of the sleeve lining of my jacket which thankfully I was left with. I have other picks, but they're a little more awkward to retrieve. I loosened the cuffs and waited.

A couple of hours later I had begun to doze sleeping off what remained of whatever drug I had been injected with when two thugs came in making lots of noise with the creaking metal of the door. Light spilled in behind the two blobs of men from the decayed sterile corridor.

"He's asleep," said one, I named him Dumb.

"Is he still drugged?" asked the other now Dumber.

"He moved from the floor so he woke up," said Dumb.

"Wake up!" shouted Dumber and I faked a startled awakening, much to Dumber's amusement.

"Get him up," said Dumb. Neither one seemed to think it odd I hadn't spoken yet so I decided to play cowed silence. I held my end of the chain letting my jacket sleeves fall over my wrists to hide the fact that the handcuffs were hanging open. Dumb hauled me to my feet and I swayed before I fully balanced.

A shadow crossed the doorway and it took me a full minute for my eyes to adjust and to see the man who stood before me.

As someone who had spent many hundreds of years prowling the streets of London, it is not unusual to find myself in places I have been before and also to be confronted with someone I knew in another life.

When I knew him last Colonel Sebastian Moran was an up and coming drug dealer with designs on organized crime. I was a thug for hire, and barely smarter than Dumb and Dumber, and what modicum of intellect I had still didn't keep me safe.

Sebastian Moran my first boss, who stabbed me as collateral and left me choking on my own blood with barely a glance as he walked away. Sebastian Moran standing in the doorway of my cell twenty years later, several hundred years later.

"So you're Dr. John Watson," said Moran a slow smirk on his face. "I thought you'd be taller."

"So this is the Hilton, I thought there's be girls," I said.

"You're very glib for a man who's been kidnapped," said Moran.

"Not my first time," I said.

"No it's not," said Moran almost laughing, "but it might be your last."

I huffed in amusement. "Unlikely," I said smiling, "but please do continue with your evil plan."

"I can see why they like you," said Moran.

"They?" I asked surprised by the plural.

"The Holmes brothers they don't often let anyone else in on their games."

"And what are you another arch enemy slash cousin?" I asked.

Moran laughed, "No relation I'm afraid, except that you shot my employer and my friend."

"You're going to have to be a little more specific."

"A man after my own heart," said Moran, "Perhaps the name Moriatry will ring some bells for you."

"If you're looking for remorse you're in the wrong place," I said.

"I like you it's a shame you joined the wrong side," said Moran.

"I was on your side once," I said, "it didn't agree with me."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Moran, "but it doesn't really matter because I'm going to kill you."

I laughed.

"Something funny?" he asked.

"Not really, it's just that's what I told Moriarty right before I shot him."

"What did he say?" asked Moran.

"He just laughed and walked away, I don't think he believed me until I pulled the trigger."

"Do you believe me when I say I'm going to kill you?"

"Does it matter?" I asked.

"Not especially," he said and pulled out a gun from the back of his jeans. He pointed the gun at my forehead barely an inch from my face. "Any last words?" he asked.

"Erik Weisz," I said grinning.

"Who is that?" asked Dumb, I'd almost forgotten he was there, almost. I reached forward grabbed Moran's hand and wrist twisted as I elbowed his face and shot Dumb and Dumber once in each of their legs and kicked them both in the head as they went down. I turned around to deal with Moran, but he was down with a bloody nose and Lestrade and Sherlock were stood in the open doorway.

"Late," I said to Sherlock as I popped the clip out of the gun and handed it to Lestrade.

"Thanks," said Greg clearly a little stunned. "We came as soon as we got a location from the CCTV."

"Thanks," I said.

"Erik Weisz?" asked Sherlock as I stepped out into the corridor with them and let a few other police and EMT's enter the room.

"Known better by his stage name," I said.

"Harry Houdini," said Lestrade, "famous for escaping restraints like handcuffs."

"I didn't know you were a magic fan, Greg," I said walking down the corridor.

"Loved it when I was a kid," said Lestrade, "I had all the books, trick handcuffs, Paul Daniels box the whole nine."

"Really?" I asked grinning, "a mate of mine lent me a biography when I was laid up for a while, it had all the tricks in it and I was super bored."

"Excuse me," said Sherlock, "can we discuss the three men you just incapacitated in there?"

"The main guy was Sebastian Moran some kind of organized crime boss," I said, "he was annoyed that I killed Moriarty."

"You killed Moriarty?" asked Lestrade suddenly serious.

"National Security, Lestrade," said Sherlock glaring at me.

"No one told me it was a secret," I said holding up my hands.

"Ah," said Sherlock, "I may have been supposed to explain that to you."

"It was self-defense," I said seeing the look on Lestrade's face. "Didn't you wonder why I was in hospital with a gunshot wound a few months ago?"

"You were shot?" asked Lestrade, "Sherlock said you'd gone on holiday."

"No wonder no one visited then," I said with a sigh and walked out of the door into the cooler evening air. We were in a small patient garden adjacent to the parking lot. I spent a lot of time out here when I was learning how to walk again.

"How did you know this was an exit?" asked Sherlock, "you haven't even asked where you are."

"I know where I am," I said and sat down on the concrete bench by the path. "I just needed to get outside for a minute."

"You alright mate?" asked Lestrade.

"I'm exhausted to be honest with you, I don't know what they gave me, but I'm still dragging a bit from it." I looked up at Greg's blurry face, and it divided into two. "That's not good," I said squeezing my eyes shut to clear the image before I passed out on the bench, but it was too late and I could feel myself going down and hear the echoes of Greg and Sherlock calling out to me from a very long way away.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Eight

"You should stop getting kidnapped and almost killed," the voice sounded in the distance and was very irritated.

"Mycroft's offered to have you GPS tagged and I'd take him up on it if it didn't mean he'd always know where I am as well. Once is understandable, but this makes…more than I've even kept track of, and you probably got in all sorts of trouble in Afghanistan and wherever you were before we met, but seriously I'm beginning to think you're a danger to yourself and if I keep letting you go on with me you might actually get yourself killed either in an attempt to save me or someone else or in the attempt to get the bad guy or by simply being the person that might break me if I lost you.

"I honestly don't know how that happened, it's barely a year and…I talk to you when you're not there. I want to know what you think, I want to explain things to you. I don't know what that means. I said you were my friend, my only friend and that's true, I don't want anyone else. I think I did that stupid experiment in Dartmoor to prove that it was still about the work for me, and nothing else mattered to me and that includes you, but I proved the opposite because I did make a mistake, it wasn't about the case it was about me and how I've changed since I met you.

"I used to think I didn't need anyone, needing someone means you're vulnerable means a weakness people can exploit, but having you around has been a strength one that I've grown accustom to even if it means you become both a shield and an Achilles heel.

"I know that you're afraid that your inherent violent nature might force you to become a monster that I might one day have to slay, but you seem to forget that the entire world is waiting for me to become a monster too. Even the people I've known for years look at me and see only the mask I use to face the world and yes it is the mask of a monster, but just because that's the face I wear doesn't mean that's who I am underneath. You have your own monster and a much better mask, but that's how you deal with it, you are the wolf in sheep's clothing, and I am a man wearing a wolf mask trying desperately not to let anyone see what I really am. You see and you don't care and you want to be around me anyway. I can't see a way to fix this. Deduction is for seeing facts in evidence and drawing conclusions of current situations. It's not for seeing the future.

"I am truly sorry for Dartmoor, for taking advantage of our friendship. For the first time I didn't think something through enough before acting. And yet am also glad of it, I am glad to know that despite my callous disregard for our friendship you felt enough for both of us to put it out in the open to spell out your grievance and not to simply pack and walk away as so many others have done in your place with good reason. I don't want you to leave John, that's all. Don't leave me alone again just when I've gotten used to being with someone."

I drifted in and out of consciousness for a while. I think Sherlock kept talking to me or rather at me and I got the impression of doctors, and nurses, and possibly Lestrade and Mycroft too.

"This man is decorated war veteran he woke up from a gunshot wound in less than 36 hours please tell me why he is still only semiconscious?" Sherlock was berating someone for something they had no control of; it was as good a cue as any.

"Sssherrrlock," I took a breath that was harder than I thought, and then I thought I should open my eyes because everything had gone quiet. Sherlock was leaning over my bed and a nurse was checking my vitals.

"Mr. Watson," said the nurse.

"Doctor," snapped Sherlock.

"Dr. Watson," the nurse corrected, "Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital," I said, pleased that I wasn't slurring anymore.

"That's right, good," she looked at Sherlock, "I'll go get Dr. Simmons." She left quickly.

"What happened?" I asked.

"What do you remember?" asked Sherlock.

"Moran, St. Martin's," I said slightly hoarse. Sherlock brought a cup from my bedside and guided a straw to my mouth. "Thank you."

"You passed out," said Sherlock, "the sedative they gave you was in fact a slow acting poison. Moran's last laugh I suppose since you do have the knack for escaping he had a back-up plan."

"You found the antidote though," I said.

"Eventually," he said, taking the cup away, "you've been in a coma for two days."

"Strong stuff," I said.

"Very," said Sherlock.

"Am I going to be okay?" I asked.

"Apparently you have the heart of a 20 year old thanks to what I'd describe as an extreme amount of focus on eating heart healthy food and exercising."

"A healthy heart's nothing to sneeze at Sherlock," I said looking at him as he examined the thread count of my bedsheets. "The body may only be transport for the mind, but if you run your wheels into the ground you won't get very far will you?" He smiled, but didn't look up and we sat in silence for a few more seconds until the doctor came in.

"Well Dr. Watson," said Dr. Simmons, "we meet again."c


End file.
